It’s 2am and I just heard a train. And I’m thinking, sometimes in quiet, things that seemed far away maybe aren’t so much. You see, we don’t live near the train.

There’s no rain tonight. And the sky is dark, almost like it’s clear. In stillness, the right things are absent as to make others more apparent. That’s what I was hoping for this Lent. My heart and mind are not early adopters of this enterprise, but I have hope for them yet.

Especially moments like this, at 2am. I’m lying here and I just now acknowledged that I don’t have to fall asleep – there’s no one who says I do. It’s a beautiful night, and what if I just think about God for a while? My body has tricked that mind and heart into it, praise be for sleeplessness. I never thought I’d say a thing like that.

And then I feel united, these parts of me, and ready for this night, ready for some new stillness to settle itself down on me, and to listen for trains, and to remember my God.

My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips, when I remember you upon my bed, and meditate on you in the watches of the night; for you have been my help, and in the shadow of your wings I will sing for joy. [Psalm 63:5-7 ESV]

I am learning in a new way how much I am not in control. I have been stuck in this hospital room for a week and have no idea when I will be able to leave. We are waiting for my neutrophil count to get to a certain point. Neutrophils reflect the strength of the immune system, and the doctors want mine stronger before I go home – possibly because they don’t know what caused the fever that brought me in here and would rather ensure I’m healthier before I go out into the elements.

I hate being here. I am sick of walking around the wing, in either direction. I’ll walk another mile today but it’s all the same. This morning I learned my neutrophil count actually dropped, so I’m further away from the goal than I was yesterday. Yesterday, everyone thought I’d probably leave today. Each day is the same in that way – guessing when it’ll be over, uncertainty the whole time.

I miss my house. I miss my bed, even though it doesn’t have cool buttons that make you sit up. I miss privacy. I miss the quiet. I miss my plants and my blankets and my walls. I miss fresh air and walking up stairs. I miss whatever isn’t hospital food.

I was crying this morning about this, about staying here another day when I so expected to leave. But then the nurse came in so I took a break. Then I cried more, but then the custodian came in to clean so I started writing and stopped crying. Maybe now I can cry in peace.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life. [Prov. 13:12]

I didn’t expect that simply being in the hospital would be such a trial in itself. It wears on you. I didn’t expect that having to stay longer would be such a disappointment as to bring me to tears. God is stretching my heart in a new way, and I just don’t like it. I want what I want, and I’m having such a hard time accepting these circumstances.

I’m waiting for something I can’t control. I’m angry about that. I don’t know when I’ll stop being angry, but reading this helps a little:

I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living! Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord! [Ps 27:13-14]

I’ve been reading this daily, waiting for my heart to take courage, waiting for my heart to wait.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but Paul found contentment in all circumstances. I don’t have anything else to do today, so I suppose I’ll work on this daunting goal.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.

Sometimes I make up jokes and just tell them to myself.

This morning I considered how perhaps the most poignant expression of “the Lord gives, the Lord takes away” will end up being about my hair loss. I did cry about having leukemia, multiple times. I cry when fears hit me too, and I cry when I feel fierce love and joy.

But right now the most likely thing I’m crying about (should you catch me doing so) is that I’m starting to lose my hair. And it’ll keep going until there’s not much left, if any. I knew I liked the hair I have, but I didn’t realize how even my heart is attached to it. I’m mad and I don’t want to lose my hair.

Which is what leads me to what Job said when he lost so many more important things. The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. And then: blessed be the name of the Lord.

This will be a hard lesson for me in trusting Him, and I don’t even know what I need to trust Him for. When my hair falls out, He has not changed, and really I haven’t either. He gave me the hairs, He knows how many there are now, how many there will be in ten minutes, and He can take them away. He made each one, and He made me. They were only meant to be temporary anyway; their time is simply ending sooner than I’d strongly prefer.

All is grace. We have received such good gifts from God, but whether they’re ours or someone else’s, they never stop belonging to God. And what a comforting thought just came: I never stop belonging to God.

I may never be content with this situation. I hope I can, but regardless, I will remind myself that I will never stop belonging to God.

Glory be, what good news this is.